Beat Life Back
by Andra Sashner
Summary: DEATHFIC WARNING: When Eiri coughed up blood & was hospitalised, Tohma succeeded in keeping Shuichi away. The consequences caught up a year later... Shuichi pays a greater price than anyone could ever have known. AU, includes OC cast.
1. In The End

Beat Life Back  
By Tsubaki

---

"It's a living," he shrugged nonchalantly, in answer to the question.

"But don't you want to do something with yourself?" the boy asked, eyes wide and his head adorably tilted to one side. "Isn't there something you wanted to do with yourself besides sell drugs on the street?"

The man stared down at the youngling before him, eyes narrowed in a manner that usually scared his peers. The kid doesn't even blink. He frowns, glares. Nothing. He figured he must be losing his touch. Maybe the kid is right and he really ought to get into another line of business…

Shit.

The little fool had infected him with goodness. What the hell?!

Ever since he'd met the brat and been faced with all that energetic attention, he had snapped, growled, made to strike. He'd done everything he could think of to scare the kid off save for actually physically hurting him. Nothing worked. If anything, the little runt seemed almost immune to empty threats. It did not translate well into the street-man's way of thinking. It meant that someone had trained the kid, with experience, to recognise the real deal.

It puzzled him. Why would anyone want to threaten such an innocent and sweet looking person? Who would want this beautiful being to be able to recognise real danger? Heck, if he were the boy's guardian, the kid would be under lock and key! Secured away in a safe place, that was the way to take care of this little cherub.

This kid, this little scrap of a being had been around him mroe than a few times over the past year. Each time, EACH time without fail, the brat would go and bug him about something else about his life, nosing and asking all sorts of weird questions. With all the attention he had received in the past, he'd been brought food, been taken shopping, been taken out to eat. It was rather like being wooed, in fact. Their relationship now... there wasn't a description for it. Anyway, the little guy was such a sweet kid; he laughed a lot, too, even if the sound was scratchy and hollow.

He cute, too, you had to admit, with such lovely wide eyes, smooth face and innocent countenance. He had a look that had not seemed to change in the past year, as though he never aged. He was always smiling, always polite, and always very annoying… and always dead-eyed.

"How old are you, kid?" the dealer demanded gruffly.

"Twenty-one," was the reply.

"Don't lie to me," he snapped, annoyed that the shrimp of a man didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to his sour mood.

"I'm not lying," the kid said exasperatedly, obviously very accustomed to the treatment. He fished out an ID card that spelled it all out. He really was twenty-one years old yet the little man didn't look a day over sixteen!

"Shit." He handed the card back.

"Yeah, I get that a lot." The little man grinned, flashing a mouthful of shiny, perfectly white teeth. "So, you ever think about what you really wanted to do when you were my age?" And, back to square one…

"No," he lied.

"Come on…" nags the idiot. "I'm practically a stranger and after tonight, you'll never see me again in your life. Humour me!"

"Most people never even learn my real name," the dealer snarled, the promise of never meeting again ringing loudly in his ears, alarm bells sounding in the back of his head. He was more than a little surprised when the little man didn't even flinch from his harsh tone. "And you want to know about my childhood dreams? Get lost."

"I just bought enough downers off you to smash an army," argued the boy, "the least you could do is be a little grateful for the business!"

"Shut up!" he snapped back. "I don't give a shit if you never buy from me again so just get the hell out of here!"

"That," crowed the boy triumphantly, "Is exactly my point!"

"What?" the dealer blinked, honestly puzzled, not understanding why the kid could so easily ignore his nastiness.

"You don't care!" he exclaimed. "You don't take care of your business because it isn't yours and you don't care about it!" He stabbed a finger into the air, emphasizing his argument. "Which means you have other ideas about what you want to do with yourself!"

"Look," he was getting weary of this bundle of energy. He wished the kid would go away. The boy was cute and a little surprising, but he was too tired to deal with the little Samaritan. "I don't want your help. I don't want to have any part of your 'Clean up the streets one dealer at a time' program. Just leave me the hell alone!"

"No!" was the reply. "Not until you tell me what you—"

"Architect!" he interrupted, frustrated and exasperated.

"Huh?"

"I wanted to take up Architecture and become an Architect," he growled. "Are you happy? Now go away." The boy was still, and blinked at him with wide eyes, the unusual colour of them startling him again. It was the eyes, he decided, that disarmed him. They were sweet and open…

And so damnably sad.

He was not immune. No matter what had happened to him, no matter everything he had lost, those eyes opened the floodgates of his humanity. They reminded him of how things used to be, of how things were supposed to be and he missed it. He'd been dealing since he got out of High School five years prior. He might not have looked it, being tall, built and a little scruffy, but he was only two years older than this kid… this very sad and broken little man.

"Why didn't you go to college?" the boy asked.

The ruffian huffed and walked away, but the brat followed. He made it two blocks down before he stopped and faced his 'tail'. He bitterly decided the boy won every argument he ever got into just out of sheer stubbornness. He was supposed to be a hardened street thug and he was a drug dealer for fuck's sake! But this scrap of a man, who stood barely a few inches over five feet, was getting more information out of him than anyone had ever done in his life.

"I couldn't afford it," he told the kid quietly, keeping his voice low in case someone should overhear. He supplied the rest of his story before the dumb shit could bug him some more. "I'm an orphan and, when I turned eighteen and graduated, they kicked me out of the system. They gave me a little pocket money and sent me on my way, washing their hands of me and here I am." He sighed, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it and waiting for the little fool's next move. Might as well get it out and over with.

The kid mulled over that one for a long while, and he started to get impatient.

"Well?" He asked when he was done with his cigarette. He tossed it to the ground and crushed it under a heel.

"Would you like to go back to school?"

"What?" He must not have heard the boy right…. Right?

"Would you like to go back to school, I asked." Those eyes again… they seemed to look into his soul.

"Yeah," he answered, tasting his own reply, rolling it off his tongue and seeing how it felt. "Yeah, I would."

The boy smiled.

It was a scary smile, the dealer noticed. One that was pleased, sure, but it was also final. He had seen that expression before out here on the street, those dead eyes and that 'last hope' glimmer. It was the look of someone who had given up, but wanted to do something good. Something to make the loss of hope and their giving up mean something, so they could move on. It meant that this pretty little boy, this deceptively youthful-looking man, was already dead.

He was just trying to leave a legacy behind.

It was a form of control, dying. The dealer understood, he'd had to in his line of work. When life jacks you over, you jack it over right back. You can take back your life by living it or leaving it, it was really that simple. And this boy had made his choice, his eyes displayed that clearly. With that horrible smile still in place, the boy handed him a card, a savings bank account card. It was new and had no name embossed, just an extra long number across the front. The dealer took it and turned it over in his hand, then glared at the trusting idiot before him… the trusting, walking dead idiot.

"I could take this and empty it out, you know," he whispered. "I could start my own drug-dealing ring." He narrowed his eyes at the kid, glowering. No reaction. Instead, the little man gave him a beatific look and a casual shrug.

"You will empty the account," he said. Those beautiful eyes dimmed further, the mission almost accomplished. "But you're going to use it to get back to school and finish what you started. Then, when you're settled and happy, you can help someone else." He reached out a hand and clutched at the dealer's shirt. "Promise me you'll give this favour to someone when you've got what you want and have something to offer."

He stared down at the little man, memorising his face, wondering what an angel of a person this was who had looked past his hard exterior and seen the man beneath. He wondered what kind of an idiot the kid was, and who the bigger fool was who'd broken the kid's heart. All he knew was, this was the chance of a lifetime and he sure as hell was not about to pass it up.

"I promise," he said. He even meant it.

He felt sad, watching the glimmer in those beautiful eyes finally die. It was over and he had played his part, taking on the brat's last wish. The promise had been so little to give in return for this great future that had now been laid ahead of him. He was thankful, so much so that he wanted to know more, wanted to have more of this innocent's life to think about and give thanks for. If the kid was leaving this world, then the least he could do was take on the legacy properly… and help.

"Hey, kid," he wasn't tired anymore. "You wanna watch the sun rise? It's better than sun sets. Those are just sad, but the sun rise, those are the beginnings of a new day, you know?"

"I won't have a new day," said the boy. His voice was flat and emotionless, the last of his hope fulfilled and gone. "I don't want a new day."

"Well, you gave me one." He wanted to be there, he decided. He wanted to hold this angel when he slipped away… he even toyed with the want to take the body back to the person who had beaten the spirit within. He wanted to make that person know what their actions had resulted in. "You gave me a… tomorrow. The least you could do is watch me start it."

The kid shook his head. "I have someplace to go, a lot to do."

"Let me take you," he insisted. H gestured to the boy's pocket, where the drugs were. "I know where you're going and I'll hang around for the ride. I can wait and… make sure you're gone." The boy's eyes lifted to his, interested. "And then after I can make sure that you… sleep in a safe place."

He took the boy to the Tokyo Tower. He had a friend there who worked night shift maintenance, who would let them up to the top. Up there, with the city at their feet, the lights glittering, was the perfect place. There, they waited, watched for the first signs of daybreak in respectful silence. And when it was time, he pulled the boy down to the floor between his knees like he would handle a child and let the kid lean back against his chest. He took a syringe and filled it, then plunged the drugs into the boy's system. There wasn't even a flinch, the kid was so disconnected. From between his legs, leaning back into his arms, the drugs took effect and the boy whimpered. He held the small frame close to him, and asked the boy questions.

He learned that the kid was a singer, that all his life there had been music in his head. It was like everything around him was alive and transmitting music into his brain where it all just bounced around until his emotions gave it all direction… so he could write it out into songs. The boy sang a little, his voice remarkably strong despite his condition, and the dealer was surprised to recognise it. He quickly figured it out and realised the kid was a celebrity!

There was a family. A mother, father and kid sister… and the thug had been angry a moment at the singer, for taking his family for granted. Having had none of his own, blood relations were special to the dealer but he understood, in a way. Family was too close, too near to see what was wrong or help solve the problem. Then the little singer said he'd had a lover, a beautiful and terrifying man who wrote love stories for a living.

Love stories! He scoffed.

The singer laughed a little at that, a hollow and horribly empty sound. It was the lover, he said, who had made him understand in the end. He explained, they had both at one point each in their lives, been raped. So much had been stolen from them and they'd not known how to handle it. The world kept going and left them behind. They had kept up appearances and behaved as normally as they could; they'd done their jobs and lived up to expectations. But then again, you can't expect a structurally damaged composition to remain standing after all the abuse. Something had to give.

And it did.

Well, that was that. Off his medication, the lover had lashed out with everything he had stored up, all the blame and pain and memories. All the injustice, the terror and fear, it was all hurled out. When the lover had coughed blood after the tirade and was rushed to the hospital, it had been the last the singer had ever seen of him. Caretakers and family had barred the singer ever since, had held him back from finding the missing writer.

In the end, a phone call was all he'd had to be consoled with. A call where the love of his life told him that he was better off without a lover saying things he didn't mean; better off without a lover who would only say hurtful things and never learn to love him back.

He had tried to tell the novelist that it didn't matter what happened, that all the he wanted was to be there. He only wanted to love the writer, live the rest of his life by the man's side. But he was turned away. He was told off for being selfish and obnoxious, and for being a bratty little spoilt celebrity… and told that he was not loved or wanted.

The singer's music died that day.

All the sound, the rising crescendo in his soul just fluttered down and faded away. He had never lived in silence before and it had frightened him. His heart was completely broken. His lover, along with the music, was gone, his life and livlihood with them … nothing made sense anymore. The pain was a constant throbbing that never faded, had never eased throughout the whole year of waiting, of hoping, that his lover would return. Neither the man nor the music ever did; the singer had never heard from either since.

He was tired now, and all he wanted was to rest.

As the sun broke fully over the horizon, the dealer leaned forward, sensing the irregular heartbeat and knowing it would all soon be over. He told the singer his name. The real name he had been born with, the one that appeared on his birth certificate. And as he did, he watched the sunlight reflect in the startling colour of the boy's eyes making it flash with purple fire. Looking over his shoulder and up into the dealer's gaze, the singer thanked him before snuggling back, body relaxing.

He held the boy close and tried to memorize everything about the singer. He wanted to remember that precise shade of violet, that smooth skin and those gentle features. He tried to imagine how the kid looked happy --he must have been absolutely mesmerizing when he was happy. Sadly he watched those magnificent eyes slip shut, knowing with a twist in his heart that they closed for the last time. With a sigh, and a soft smile of relief, the singer whispered his last words,

"Wherever you are, I love you, Yuki."

-

-

-

-  
Please leave a review or comment! Thank you.


	2. Mourning

_Author Notes:_

_My muse suddenly decided late into the night of the 26th of February, to sit me in front of my laptop and write. These words came out in just over two hours, directly from a strangely blank mind. I didn't know how this was going to go, the ideas were raw and just THERE. Thankfully, it turned out kinda alright. I leave the progress of this story to my muse and therefore make no promises as to when this will be updated again; it's at her pleasure._

_Personally, I hope that I can do this tale justice. To be honest with you, I was quite happy to keep it as a one shot had it not been for last night's writing session. Thanks to A for her review on 1st December 2006. I guess it really got me thinking..._

* * *

**Beat Life Back: Mourning**

--

It was quite late in the evening of the 17th April and there was an odd chill in the air, but he was here as he was every year on this day.

Matsumoto Takashi bowed deeply to the Temple's kindly head monk before stepping away and making his way out of the little 'office'. He felt satisfied as he always did after his meeting with the Temple administrator monk, the pull of this particular responsibility fulfilled for another year.

The grounds were empty, as he preferred. He liked being able to visit alone, talk without being overheard and just generally get comfortable. Being rather well-known was not always a good thing, he had come to realise, and he sympathised even more now with his departed friend than he had… it would make four years in a few hours.

He walked by the gardens, the temple houses and main burial grounds, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching the habitual bottle of the most premium sake he could find.

He visited here only twice a year, on this day and for Obon. For the latter, he always came on Tokyo's first day of celebration, the 13th of July. The place was always crowded then. Usually, folks looked him over carefully, expressions clearly readable, wondering who he was. Women and girls gave him shy smiles… he disliked the attention he drew.

He knew he stood out. He was too tall for one thing and his features were much too sharp and angular. Not like he could complain when there was no one to attribute his features to, being an orphan and not having knowledge of his lineage. People called him handsome, but all he saw in the mirror were too-dark eyes, high, sharp cheekbones and an oddly slim nose. He framed his square face with the loose chunks of long strands, a contemporary cut, to soften the hard contours. Though he'd often been told to trim his hair, advised to polish his look according to his now sharp style, he kept the hair cut.

For the sake of his friend, the one he was visiting today. Because that kid had always liked it this way.

He dressed nicely, as always, but today he had pulled out his most pristine and expensive suit. The cut was sharp and modern, the fabric soft yet durable, with a tie to complement the texture and pattern… an ensemble designed by Hugo Boss. He had shed his jacket earlier and instead wore a thin cotton Armani trench coat. To visit his friend, he would always look his best.

He followed an old path up a small hill to the oldest part of the burial grounds, where there was supposedly no more room… Well, not unless you asked really nicely and definitely not unless you paid for it.

Finding the tombstone he sought he came to stand before it. It stood out, being that it was new, the stone still pristine, a paler shade than the surrounding old markers and a little rough. He read the few engraved words carefully, slowly, eyes lingering on the western inscription midway down the stone face: 'May all that have passed lie to rest where they belong.'

Long minutes later, he bent and put the sake bottle down. Reaching beneath his collar he pulled out a white gold necklace. Gently, he rubbed the pendant between his fingertips, this little touchstone he received only precious small comfort from, a poor substitute for the gift's giver.

There was a quiet scuffle behind him from the path he had just stepped from but he ignored it, respectful of the person's desire for the same solitude he himself sought today. In any case, he did not want to acknowledge any other presence than this one before him.

-

"_Ne, Taki," the kid whispered, snuggling into Takashi's side. One of the young man's hands idly drifting over the dealer's bare stomach. "You know, you have the same name as someone I used to know."_

"_Former lover?" Takashi asked, without thinking. Despite his indifferent tone, he pulled his lover closer to him. This was how he felt the way the boy stiffened and he could feel, despite the warmth of the moppet's skin against his own, how the small hairs on the boy's arm stood a little on end._

"_No." The little man closed moist eyes, whispering, "You're the only 'Taki' who's ever been this good to me."_

_-_

His hand clenched into a fist around the pendant.

"I didn't know then…" he whispered, "How you were trying to open up to me. I didn't know then… that there was hope for you." Letting the necklace go he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Waving them, he said, "Sorry, I had to start again. It's been a tough couple of years since you… left."

He pulled the other hand out of his pocket, in it his lighter. He took a breath and leisurely blew the smoke away. The wind picked up suddenly, making his trench coat flap around his legs, blowing his hair out of order.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I guess this must piss you off."

But he continued, taking one drag after another until the stick burned down. He flicked the butt down to the ground and stepped on it, grinding the fire out.

"But see?" he whispered, "at least I'm not polluting the environment any more than I have to."

He smiled a little as he sat, pulling his trench coat under him. He propped his right foot up before him on the step, his right-hand profile presented to the grave marker, the path now behind him. Propping his right elbow up on his knee, he looked over at the marker and gave a small nod.

-

"_Stop that!"_

"_Stop what?" Takashi juggled the group of bags he carried in his one hand and grumbled distractedly, "I'm not doing anything."_

"_Smoking!" the brat stopped in his tracks, his voice rising a little._

"_Eh?" Stopping, Takashi glared down at the little irritant, "You're kidding right?"_

_The kid pouted, planting both hands on his hips. "If I'm going to buy you a new wardrobe, it would be nice if the stuff didn't always smell of smoke. It'd be gross!"_

"_You little punk! I—"_

"_It's killing you…" the pose of the small body relaxed, hands coming up to wrap around himself. "Every drag, every stick… slowly… It's killing you."_

_Takashi's breath caught when that small face tilted up to meet his gaze. The amethyst of those beautiful eyes sparkled with a passion he had never seen in them before._

"_I don't want you to die. Not you too..."_

_-_

After a pause, he cracked the sake bottle open and pulled a flat cup from his pocket. He poured himself a serving, saluted with the full cup and nodded to the tombstone. There was noise again from the path, but again he ignored it.

"I didn't treat you very well," Takashi sighed regretfully, the tight pain in his chest ever more acute than the year before. "But you called me kind… you told me that I cared… enough. Che!" The grip of his fingers tightened around the cup. "To you, as every year, I offer my sincerest--"

He choked, unable to continue. But he saluted one more time then brought the cup to his lips and drank. Pouring another, he dispensed the contents of the cup over the base of the tombstone. He filled the cup again and brought it up in another toast, before taking his second drink down. He poured the fourth cupful, the stone's second serving, over the tombstone base and paused as he pulled his hand away.

"I know you don't drink much, but I remember how you…"

His hoarse voice cut off again on its own. It was always this way when he came here. But despite what he still considered a show of weakness, he really didn't mind his reaction so much. Not here.

-

"_I really don't seem to be able to hold my liquor…" the kid said, slouching over the table to put his head in his arms…_

"_And you tell me that now?!" Takashi demanded, happily tipsy but definitely still sensible. The sake cup in his hand was arrested halfway to his lips. If the kid couldn't hold his liquor, it was his own problem, he thought, and drank. _

"_I figured," the brat said, lifting his head to look at Takashi, "That if I practiced enough, I might get the hang of it."_

"_Idiot!" Takashi snapped, pouring himself another serving. This was free booze and he wasn't passing it up._

"_Yeah," the kid slumped again and missed the warm humour in Takashi's eyes, "I know."_

_-_

"At least you looked cute trying." He saluted the tombstone again and tossed back his third cup. Finally allowing the tears to slip down his cheeks he whispered, "Gods, I'm so sorry…" He took a breath before finishing his plea, "Shuichi."

Takashi drank the sake down. As he did, there was movement once more from behind him. It was quiet but his martial arts training enhanced his senses and he had… sensed the movement more than heard it.

"What do you want?" He demanded gruffly, not turning, slowly setting the cup down by the bottle. "You've been there since I arrived."

"I just… needed to make certain this grave was of who I thought it was."

The slow voice was rich, a smooth and deep baritone that sounded oddly familiar. Takashi said nothing, pouring a serving for the tombstone once more, one for his friend to match his own every drink as was the custom.

"I've been looking for him… for Shuichi."

"Well, as you can see, there's not much to be had for finding him." Takashi did not regret the harshness of his voice, incensed at finally meeting someone from Shu's past… the boy's _living_ past. This person was probably one of those who had not been able to save the little singer… who might have not ever even tried. "Leave him alone. Leave us alone."

"Can't."

The man moved forward, closer, the source of his voice putting him just a metre behind Takashi. He gritted his teeth but remained silent.

"Been a long time… I've missed him."

"Yeah, I'm sure you did," he said sarcastically. He poured himself his fourth cup, silently glad the man remained behind him so his face remained hidden, so his tears could not be seen. "Let me guess," he scoffed, "you miss him because you cared about him, right?"

"I cared." The voice was thicker now, hoarse with tears.

Takashi would not have noticed had he not been listening so carefully. But it did nothing to calm him. The urge to rip into someone, dispense of four years' worth of regret and pain, was still strong. Finally there was someone here who admitted to being part of Shuichi's life. He gritted his teeth, exercising all his self control. He poured Shuichi's next cup, hating how his hand shook a little.

"He wouldn't talk to me. Then I wasn't here for him… out of the country… away on tour," that deep voice took a shaky breath, "I didn't know… that it was so bad. I don't even know how he--"

"Shut up and leave!" Takashi hissed, "I don't give a shit where you were, you--" He cut himself off, forcing his voice down to a lower volume, "Leave. This is _my_ time with him."

"Sorry… please… it's been so long…" The emotional break in the man's voice tempered Takashi's anger, allowed him to use his last shred of patience to remain calm.

He sensed the man move slowly from behind him and around to his side. Tilting his head up at the slim figure beside him, he had every intention of spewing at least half the angry words clamouring in his mind… but was startled into silence by his recognition of the intruder.

He breathed the name in surprise, "Sakuma Ryuichi…"

--


	3. Backlash

_Author Notes:_

_Well, here we are again. The muse decided she's angsty and angry, and here is another chapter. Hopefully the rest will come soon, I have a feeling this one is going to be a shorter story than my main one. I can see the end of it and it is rather nice, I just want my muse to hurry up and tell ME what the details are._

_Thanks for your support and don't forget to feed(back) me!_

_

* * *

**Beat Life Back: Backlash**_-- 

Denying the singer a drink of his precious sake was little revenge but Takashi savoured it nonetheless. Petty, sure. But every inch counted as far as he was concerned.

Matsumoto Takashi glared across at the silent singer, annoyed the man would not leave him to celebrate Shuichi's birthday in peace. He had drawn the singer away toward the main gates. It was there where they now stood together in the semi-darkness, the wind blowing their coats and hair into a disorder they both ignored. From where he stood at this angle, Ryuichi's tears glistened with reflected light from the street lamps; he ignored that too.

He demanded softly, "What do you want from me?"

"Your time. I would like to talk."

"About him?" Takashi guessed. He shook his head in annoyed disbelief. "There's nothing I can tell you."

"Something. Anything." Ryuichi seemed to be pleading, but there was a glint in his blue eyes that Takashi noticed. A dark shadow approaching dangerous.

"He was annoying," the Architect said, with a tone of finality as thought that were all he had to say.

"Please. You had him in ways we… I… could only dream." Ryuichi's voice softened when he said, "He cared enough to choose you."

"He spent a lot of time with me." Takashi couldn't really think to say more than that. His thoughts on his time with Shuichi were a little jumbled. All he really felt was regret, he really missed the little man. It occurred to him that talking about it was precisely what his therapist had recommended; perhaps this would be for both their benefits if he opened up.

With a sigh, he tossed that thought out and said slowly, the words kept internal for far too long did not come easily, "I knew him for only a year but we saw each other almost every other day. Eventually we began to meet up every day though we didn't get to know each other very well, we just spent time." Takashi furrowed his brows, anger coming over him. He said brusquely, "He didn't even know my real name until a few moments before he died. And now he's dead. End of story."

"You were with him when he died?"

"Of course," he replied shortly. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Takashi tensed, "I killed him."

"You—" The singer's blue eyes skittered, widening, a glazed look coming over them. He was reeling with shock. Hoarsely, disbelievingly, he rasped, "Why?!"

"He asked me to." Ryuichi looked angry at that, outraged, but Takashi didn't care. He glared and enunciated, "He quietly held out his arm and asked me to inject him with drugs _he_ had bought. He secured his own ticket out of this life, I simply administered it."

The anger fell from the singer's face to be replaced by complete devastation. Weakly, he repeated, "He wanted…"

"He was desperate for it," Takashi said cruelly. "I did it because I knew he was going to die that night, whether I was with him or not. All I knew was, it was better than him dying alone. I owed him that much."

"Owed?"

"He gave me everything I have. Everything that I am now is because of him."

"But he left everything to his family." The singer tipped his head in confusion, a movement so similar to Shuichi that Takashi paused, watching. "Even the rights to his songs. Well, some went to Yuki-san. But then those that were the ones he had written for Yu—"

"None of that shit," he clarified. "He left me a future." He gestured to his clothing and to the black Volvo parked only a few meters away. "Everything."

"Money…?"

"Gave me my 'ground'."

"Ground…" the singer repeated on a perplexed whisper, tasting the word though he would never really understand what that meant between Takashi and Shuichi. After a while, hesitantly, he asked, "Did he… love you?"

"No."

"But you seemed…" he gestured toward the pathway that lead up to the tombstone, referring to the architect's earlier behaviour. "I don't—"

"I was just a… casual lover," Takashi softly admitted. He had only ever discussed this very private aspect of his relationship with Shuichi with one person. Gruffly, he insisted, "It wasn't anything—"

"It was!" Ryuichi exclaimed softly, he stepped closer looking Takashi over with renewed interest. "He must have cared for you to do that. I knew him that much."

"You didn't know _shit_ about Shindou Shuichi!" Takashi snapped, tossing his cigarette away. "You knew nothing about him." The rage threatened to overtake him but he held it back. Barely. "He was breaking. I watched him! Everyday, a little more, until there was nothing left…"

Ryuichi looked horribly miserable.

"You have no idea what it was like to watch him. To see him descend into that darkness," he accused, enraged, his voice icy. "You all had it easy, you didn't force him to accept your help."

The singer shuddered, looking defeated by his own guilt.

"You have nothing that you can say to me, _nothing,_" Takashi hissed, "that could possibly let any of you off the hook." The singer's eyes flashed and he opened his mouth to speak but Takashi continued, "And neither do I."

Quietly, they stood together. Not like much else could be said at that point. After a while, Ryuichi spoke up again,

"Will you speak to his family?"

"You're impossibly audacious."

"I'm a stage performer. I can ask for anything," Ryu smiled.

"Doesn't mean you'll get it," he growled, wary of the singer's smile.

"Perhaps not, but I asked."

Rolling his eyes, Takashi didn't even bother to answer. He gave a soft snort and lit up another cigarette.

"Well?"

"Forget it!" Takashi snapped. "I don't owe anyone any favours!"

"Not even Shuichi?" Ryuichi asked slyly. There was a sudden maliciousness about the singer that startled Takashi. He had never seen the pop singer look like _this_ before.

"Shuichi didn't ask me to do anything of the sort," he answered carefully. His own defensiveness irritated him, he snapped, "I don't have to do anything I don't want to do."

"You know," Ryuichi's smile shifted then, a smaller curve of his lips than before. But Takashi suddenly felt… frightened. "I know where you got that money. And I know there was no instruction in Shuichi's will, no legal way that money became yours."

Takashi's eyes narrowed. "You can't prove anything."

"But someone can shed some light on it," the singer said softly. "And someone can make sure the investigation stays open. Someone like… Seguchi Tohma."

"You bastard!" the architect whispered. In the past half decade, that name had become more than a household name synonymous to Power.

"That I am," Ryuichi acknowledged. "I can play as dirty as I please, Matsumoto-san."

They stood for a long moment, the singer looking royally smug. And Takashi absolutely disbelieving that what he had heard was true. The man had no shame at all, he angrily realised. The only thing holding him in check for these few precious moments were memories of how happily Shuichi had spoken of his idol and friend. The implications incensed him, his anger spiralling quickly out of his control,

"You _dare _to do this to Shuichi?" Takashi glared hatefully. "This isn't just about me, you realise that don't you? Who and what I have become, these were Shuichi's final wishes and you dare to insult this?"

The smug expression fell slowly from Ryuichi's face and an odd, startled expression came to his eyes.

"You want, in your selfish desperation, to corner me into talking. And in that childish and useless desire you _insult _Shuichi even in death!" Takashi could barely contain himself now, he shook with rage.

Ryuichi's eyes widened, the malice disappearing, looking horrified.

"How _dare _you. _How dare you!_"

And with that, Takashi let fly. Oh, Ryuichi Sakuma saw it coming, and Takashi knew then the singer had definitely had training in martial arts. But in no way was he quick enough to block or evade. He went down hard, the little singer physically out-done by Takashi's greater skill, height and weight.

"_Son of a bitch!_" Takashi glowered down at the singer, barely registering the arriving mini-van parking by the sidewalk. Ryuichi looked dazed, clutching his jaw and trying to sit up. "Do you even realise that it's his birthday today?! You shameless bastard!"

"That's quite enough!" declared an accented, gravely voice.

Takashi registered the sound of a cocking gun. Automatically, he used the source of the voice as a point of reference and sought to get out of sight. He crouched and threw himself to one side, ducking behind his nearby vehicle and pulling his own small handgun from the holster at his ankle.

"Oy!" the new comer exclaimed.

Takashi heard the approaching footsteps, glad that whoever it was he was wearing leather soled shoes which made his foot falls that much more audible. He stood up by the driver side window, cocking the gun and taking aim.

"Hello there."

Blonde? Takashi wondered. The accent dawned on him as American. "Who the hell are you?"

"You can call me Mr K."

"Winchester," Takashi murmured, coming out of his defensive pose. He lowered his gun, but kept it in hand, coming around from the car and back on to the side walk. Mr K raised a brow at this, raising his own firearm skyward. He came to Ryuichi's side and extended his other arm, helping the singer up.

"We've never met before yet you know me," K observed curiously. He clutched the singer to his side. "You're pretty good. I'd remember you if we'd met."

"Yes, I have heard all about you." He looked K and Ryuichi over then turned to walk past, back onto Temple grounds. Over his shoulder, he said, "Since you have your singer, I'll be taking my leave then. Excuse me."

"Matsumoto-san!" Ryuichi called and Takashi paused in his steps. "We still need to talk."

"There is no _need_ to talk," he contradicted sharply. The architect resumed his pace and as he disappeared into the darkness, he growled, "I have a birthday to 'celebrate', Sakuma-san. For now, stay out of my way and baby-talk to your Muscle. Or you can hope my temper has calmed by the time I'm done and ready to leave."

--


End file.
